He takes the flannel, but doesn't put it on yet; it's another expression of generosity that blindsides him a little from a human, because none of the ones he knows would ever have entertained the idea that a synth would have a problem with the ambient temperature, or that this would be a problem worth correcting even if they did become aware. Not that there was ever such a thing as weather to worry about, in the Institute. The temperature simply was what it was.
But she's right. He hasn't met very many people yet in this brave new world. And apparently, they like to scorch their own lungs out and express unexpected chivalry toward big burly labor robots.
He doesn't expect to have his wrist taken, and the warm contact feels like a little spark, startling but pleasant. The way she directs the cigarette into his own mouth is even more so, making his eyes widen a little as he processes it. His gaze focuses more on her fingers than on the flame, watching them move, and only when directed does he draw in a trusting breath.
The outcome is what one might expect. He has the presence of mind (she'd said that he would waste it; he doesn't want to be wasteful) to snatch the cigarette back out of his own mouth and hold it off to the side as he hacks the smoke back up, fist pressed to his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle it until he's done coughing.
"Shit," he says, as the coursers do, when he can talk again.
"Oof-- too big!" she laughs, clapping him on the back as if it'll help expell whatever's still in his lungs. "You're alright, bud, here--"
Her own cigarette is hanging from her lip as she reaches down into her pack and pulls out a can of purified water. She hands it to him to help calm his burning throat, still chuckling softly.
"It's fine if you don't want to finish it," she mutters casually, "First time I had one I don't even really know if I inhaled. I think I just held the smoke in my mouth for a bit like a jackass."
He looks momentarily stricken by the laughing, big wounded brown eyes turning to her as if in betrayal, but it doesn't take long for it to dawn on him that this is still friendliness, in its way. He doesn't really understand it, but the clap on the back is still unambiguously friendly, and she wouldn't be telling him that story, either, if she wanted to mock him. He doesn't think that's how it works.
Cigarette still in hand, burning but not as wasted as if he'd dropped it, he drinks the water down slowly until the sting feels soothed and hands the half-full can back.
"Why do you even do it?" he asks, envisioning this scenario and no more enlightened about the purpose than he was before. "If it's a terrible habit and it feels this unpleasant, what are these even for?"
Those eyes make her hesitate. Big and dark, like Barbara's were, catching the light and shining impossibly in the moonlight. Doe's gaze averts almost immediately. It's been a few years... does she even really remember what Barbara's eyes looked like anymore? Or does it even matter, if something can remind her of her so easily.
She plucks the cigarette from her mouth to ash it out the window, then takes a deep breath, lips sputtering on the exhale. A half shrug follows. "I dunno, it's calming to me," she says, bringing it to her lips again, "Reminds me to breathe."
"Because you'd...otherwise forget?" Even by synth standards, M7 has a reputation for taking things overly literally, though none of them in the Gen 3 quarters are known for being particularly great with metaphor. He's aware she's got to mean something else, or she'd be dead, but it's lost on him.
Still, if she says this is meant to be calming, he could sure as hell use that right now. He gives it another try, observing and carefully replicating her movements, taking a shallower and more cautious breath this time. It still burns, still makes him cough, but it's a smaller, surmountable cough this time, and he can understand now how it's done. He doesn't feel calmer yet, but maybe that'll come in a minute.
"You never seem like you need any help staying calm," he points out, with a soft undercurrent of admiration and envy together.
She laughs, endlessly amused by the display of innocence from such a large man. It's endearing, but escorts like these are always surface-level connections at best, even if synths like him make it really easy for her to be a bit more vulnerable with. It's the innocence that'll get you; kicking in those parental instincts... but it's best to not get attached. Best to not get attached to anyone anymore.
"Not exactly. Hard to explain. Makes you slow down. Like-- okay..."
She delicately places the cigarette on the window sill for a moment, balanced so that the embers hang off of the outer edge. Then, facing the man beside her, holds her hand on her belly.
"So there's a difference between breathing normally and this..." she demonstrates a slow, calming breathing technique, inhale and exhale. The same sort of breath she might take before firing a shot that required steadiness. Her shoulders visibly drop as she does.
"I'm not smoking every cigarette like that, but like... how you breathe does make a difference. Does that make more sense?" she asks, reaching for her cigarette again.
"Practice that sometime and you won't seem like you need any help, either," she huffs, then bobs her head, considering, "That, and compartmentalizing the shit out of everything. Don't worry about it."
M7 listens, quiet and rapt. It makes sense, explained that way; it still seems like something easier said than done and perhaps requiring more of Doe's cool je ne sais quoi than she thinks it does, but it costs him nothing to try it.
He takes in that hand on her stomach with curious dark eyes, gaze lingering in a way that might be prurient interest from someone else but is only for ease of imitation here, and rests his hand on his own to see if he can feel any difference when he tries. He can, though he doesn't know what to make of it--but somehow he does feel a little steadier as he exhales, as if some of that nervous jerky tension that's been winding his muscles tight since he woke up is being carried away on the cold breeze now.
Not all of it, but enough. Breathing in general feels like it's coming a little easier now. He looks back up at Doe with some wonderment. "It really does work."
His lips quirk almost imperceptibly, the kind of expressiveness he's begun unconsciously to pick up and practice only since coming to the surface. It's the kind of thing oddly more encouraged in the Gen 2s than the Gen 3s--the scientists pride themselves on being able to make polymer faces that can emote, but they don't want the flesh-and-blood ones getting ideas. "But I don't think anyone will be thinking I don't need help anytime soon."
Doe doesn't mind the way he looks at her; it's clear to her at least that it's curiousity alone, in a learning sort of way, and when he tries it himself there is something maternal in her that feels a tinge of pride. She smiles warmly at his astonishment, patting him encouragingly on the arm in response.
"Most people will tell you I'm a bullshitter. Hell-I'll tell you I'm a bullshitter. But there is real advice stowed awarly in this old noggin' of mine, if you're not put off by it. Scout's honor."
She shrugs at his next comment. The good thing about him being slower to adapt to facial expressions is that he has a great pokerface. "Maybe. I dunno. You've got that strong stoic thing going for you."
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But she's right. He hasn't met very many people yet in this brave new world. And apparently, they like to scorch their own lungs out and express unexpected chivalry toward big burly labor robots.
He doesn't expect to have his wrist taken, and the warm contact feels like a little spark, startling but pleasant. The way she directs the cigarette into his own mouth is even more so, making his eyes widen a little as he processes it. His gaze focuses more on her fingers than on the flame, watching them move, and only when directed does he draw in a trusting breath.
The outcome is what one might expect. He has the presence of mind (she'd said that he would waste it; he doesn't want to be wasteful) to snatch the cigarette back out of his own mouth and hold it off to the side as he hacks the smoke back up, fist pressed to his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle it until he's done coughing.
"Shit," he says, as the coursers do, when he can talk again.
no subject
Her own cigarette is hanging from her lip as she reaches down into her pack and pulls out a can of purified water. She hands it to him to help calm his burning throat, still chuckling softly.
"It's fine if you don't want to finish it," she mutters casually, "First time I had one I don't even really know if I inhaled. I think I just held the smoke in my mouth for a bit like a jackass."
no subject
Cigarette still in hand, burning but not as wasted as if he'd dropped it, he drinks the water down slowly until the sting feels soothed and hands the half-full can back.
"Why do you even do it?" he asks, envisioning this scenario and no more enlightened about the purpose than he was before. "If it's a terrible habit and it feels this unpleasant, what are these even for?"
no subject
She plucks the cigarette from her mouth to ash it out the window, then takes a deep breath, lips sputtering on the exhale. A half shrug follows. "I dunno, it's calming to me," she says, bringing it to her lips again, "Reminds me to breathe."
no subject
Still, if she says this is meant to be calming, he could sure as hell use that right now. He gives it another try, observing and carefully replicating her movements, taking a shallower and more cautious breath this time. It still burns, still makes him cough, but it's a smaller, surmountable cough this time, and he can understand now how it's done. He doesn't feel calmer yet, but maybe that'll come in a minute.
"You never seem like you need any help staying calm," he points out, with a soft undercurrent of admiration and envy together.
no subject
"Not exactly. Hard to explain. Makes you slow down. Like-- okay..."
She delicately places the cigarette on the window sill for a moment, balanced so that the embers hang off of the outer edge. Then, facing the man beside her, holds her hand on her belly.
"So there's a difference between breathing normally and this..." she demonstrates a slow, calming breathing technique, inhale and exhale. The same sort of breath she might take before firing a shot that required steadiness. Her shoulders visibly drop as she does.
"I'm not smoking every cigarette like that, but like... how you breathe does make a difference. Does that make more sense?" she asks, reaching for her cigarette again.
"Practice that sometime and you won't seem like you need any help, either," she huffs, then bobs her head, considering, "That, and compartmentalizing the shit out of everything. Don't worry about it."
no subject
He takes in that hand on her stomach with curious dark eyes, gaze lingering in a way that might be prurient interest from someone else but is only for ease of imitation here, and rests his hand on his own to see if he can feel any difference when he tries. He can, though he doesn't know what to make of it--but somehow he does feel a little steadier as he exhales, as if some of that nervous jerky tension that's been winding his muscles tight since he woke up is being carried away on the cold breeze now.
Not all of it, but enough. Breathing in general feels like it's coming a little easier now. He looks back up at Doe with some wonderment. "It really does work."
His lips quirk almost imperceptibly, the kind of expressiveness he's begun unconsciously to pick up and practice only since coming to the surface. It's the kind of thing oddly more encouraged in the Gen 2s than the Gen 3s--the scientists pride themselves on being able to make polymer faces that can emote, but they don't want the flesh-and-blood ones getting ideas. "But I don't think anyone will be thinking I don't need help anytime soon."
no subject
"Most people will tell you I'm a bullshitter. Hell-I'll tell you I'm a bullshitter. But there is real advice stowed awarly in this old noggin' of mine, if you're not put off by it. Scout's honor."
She shrugs at his next comment. The good thing about him being slower to adapt to facial expressions is that he has a great pokerface. "Maybe. I dunno. You've got that strong stoic thing going for you."